The Tiger of San Pedro
by Mr. Chaos
Summary: A ranting man on the streets of Cardiff lead Sherlock and John into the world of reality TV. It is a place where even reality isn't reality and no one is who they claim to be, either in front of or behind the camera. But when there are murders to be solved and criminals to outsmart, such things are of little concern to the world's only Consulting Detective. 2nd Series Story
1. Chapter 1

"Lights on."

Scott Eccles took a moment to stretch, savoring the firm mattress and rough blankets that made up his bed. When he had first slept here he had found it all much too coarse and uncomfortable. No matter how he twisted and turned he had been unable to sleep that first night, always finding a muscle complaining or a limb throbbing. But now, after nearly 3 months, he'd come to love the bed and all its rough little quirks. He couldn't help but wonder what he would do when he finally went home and was forced to sleep on his old mattress with the bad springs near his knees and those sheets with that troublesome stain that never seemed to come out.

Scott's thoughts drifted away from the bed when he realized that he was still in darkness.

"Lights on!" he called out again. And once again the lights failed to do as he commanded.

Hauling himself out of bed, Scott ambled towards the bedroom, tripping over his duffle bag and nearly bashing his head against the dresser. The sudden movement made his head throb and he pressed the heel of his hand against his temple, trying to will away the headache that was forming.

He never should have partied with the rest of them last night.

They had been celebrating, of course, amazed they had made it this far, that they were so close to winning the 325,00 pounds and a new car. The money would be wonderful, life-changing, but Scott really wanted that car. Women dig the car.

"Lights on, shower on," Scott commanded as he entered the bathroom, stripping off his nightshirt.

The room remained the same.

"Shower on." Nothing. "Lights on." Nothing.

He left the bathroom in a huff, yanking open the door and storming down the dark hallway. "Garcia! Garcia, wake up!" Scott pounded on the man's door, only to find it opening under his ministrations. He peaked inside, startled to find the bed not slept in and avoid of Garcia's belongings.

He tried Keller's room next, finding the same thing. Vandal's room was the same. Empty. Unused. Deserted.

"Messages!" Scott called out. No one answered his call. "Messages! Lights on!" The building remained cold. Scott began to rush about the hallways, throwing open rooms and tearing apart drawers. "Hello! Hello!" he spun about the main living room, hyperventilating as he realized no one...not any of his housemates, not any of the cameracrew, not the producers...were there. He was alone. "HELP! HELP!"

No one came.

~MC~MC~MC~

Author's Note: At this point, please go to Youtube and watch the opening credits to Sherlock


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: The following takes place around August 15th, before Holmes meets 'The Woman' and after the cases about the Speckled Blonde and the Geek Interpreter. Also, please keep in mind I am an American, so if some Americanisms creep in, my apologizes.

~MC~MC~MC~

"No."

John looked over at Sherlock, giving the back of his flatmate's head a sour look. "You can't even see what I'm holding."

"But I can hear it. The rustle of the papers is distinct…if you had read my blog posting about the binding of pages-"

"You know what, I don't care." John set the bundle of papers back on the table and moved towards the window, his goal the stack of clutter just below the sill. He wasn't even for sure what it was; he just knew he wanted it gone.

"No," Sherlock stated calmly, never bothering to turn his head away from the experiment he was running out in the kitchen.

"Sherlock, we agreed to get this place cleaned up!" John protested.

"Yes, we did, but only after much whining on your part." Sherlock selected a glass, which at one time had been a measuring cup in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen before it had been purloined by the detective for his own needs, and poured a foul smelling liquid into a beaker, joining it with…something. John wasn't sure what it was, but it looked to be the color and consistency of mucus. "You do that a lot, you know?"

"Do what?"

"Whine. 'We need to clean the apartment'. 'You can't shoot guns at the microwave'. 'Stop putting dead frogs in my bed'."

"You never put dead frogs in my bed." John stated.

"...ah. Right. How silly of me. By the way, don't go look into your bed."

"Of course," John said dryly, grabbing a pile of paper that looked to have once been some magazines before they had been left out in the rain for 5 days then dried under a blistering sun for a week. He grimaced, wondering just what sort of diseases he might be catching from touching the filthy, mold-coated pulp, and tossed it into the trash bag that was not nearly as full as he would have wished it to be.

"I needed that," Sherlock stated, squinting at the beaker that was currently bubbling like root beer. "Please put it back. Exactly where you found it. Won't do me any good if you put it back in the wrong place."

John's response was to dump more loose papers into the trash bag.

"I hope you realize that your need to tidy up is ensuring that guilty men get away with dastardly crimes."

"Yes, but it also ensures that Mrs. Hudson doesn't kick us out on the street!" John bent down to pick up a box full of what could be best described as purple spaghetti. " And by the way…dastardly crimes? Who talks like that?" John asked. "And stop pretending that this is anything else but rubbish."

"Everything I keep is of the utmost importance."

"To a case or to your silly little need to keep every piece of filth you find?" John dug into a pile of papers, emerging with a headless Barbie doll. "What is this?'

Sherlock finally turned to look at him, tilting his head slightly. "I'd say it is a Malibu Barbie. You can tell by the little swimsuit she is wearing. I'd thought you would realize that." Sherlock squinted. "She does resemble that last girl you dated…the one with the big chest and grating laugh."

"Her laugh wasn't _that _grating."

"I've heard donkeys with better vocals. Now please kindly put the Barbie down…" John tossed it into the bag, "…I didn't mean there."

"You know, you're a bit of a hoarder," John said, making his way towards the kitchen, keeping the bag out of Sherlock's grasp, lest the detective go snatching it up and retrieving his precious garbage. "I think I might contact that show from the cable, you know the one? Has the Americans that can't throw anything away either? Think I'll give them a ring and have you featured."

"I don't know which one," Sherlock said, swirling his concoction.

"Of course you don't. I forgot that you don't watch the telly."

"I have better things to do than watch other people living their lives," Sherlock stated, setting down his beaker. "Why should I concern myself with the antics of other people if they are of no interest to me? Sounds boring and my own life is boring enough when I don't have a case, thank you."

"I don't know…it's just something people do. And I was joking." Watson opened the fridge, examining bottles and containers before tossing them into the bag.

"…ah, right." Sherlock returned to his mixing. "Don't touch the genitals."

"Excuse me?"

"The genitals. They are in the ice cube tray."

"Why are there-you know, I don't care." John moved away from the fridge, muttering to himself. "Like living with Hannibal Lector."

"Is that a reference to something?" Sherlock asked.

"And now it's like living with Temperance Brennan."

The muffled ringing of Sherlock's phone stopped any comments either of the flatmates were about to make. The two of them looked at each other, knowing that call to Sherlock's phone meant one thing: A case.

The problem was finding the damn thing.

"I swear it is coming from other here!" John said, trying to track down the wayward phone. "See, if you had just let me clean up we wouldn't be having this problem!"

"Nonsense," Sherlock said tartly, "if you had left everything alone I'd have found it by now." Sherlock began to toss pillow into the air, becoming more and more frazzled as the thought that he might miss the call and thus miss a case was making him a bit manic. "Hand me my jackknife, will you?"

"Your phone wasn't sewn into the cushions!' John exclaimed, throwing several tabloids in the air as he continued to search for the missing phone.

"Will you be putting this on your blog, John?" Sherlock said with bitter amusement. "The Case of the Missing Phone? I'm sure that will be a real hot one for discussion. And by discussion I mean your sister and Mrs. Hudson asking us all sorts of private details-"

"Oh shut up!" John grumped. "Here it is…in the loo. Why the hell is in the loo?"

"Why not?" Sherlock said, pressing the phone to his ear. "Yes, who was murdered?" His face fell slightly. "Oh…well that is disappointing." John rolled his eyes; only Sherlock Holmes would be sad someone DIDN'T die. "Yes…yes…hmm, doesn't sound that…well now…well that does make things a bit better…alright, we'll be there as soon as we can." Turning off the phone, Sherlock went over to his chair and pulled his coat out from under it, brushing it off and donning it before turning to John. "We have a case."

"Not a murder case, I take it?" John asked, grabbing his own coat. Even in summer London was not a warm place and recently there had been a bit of a cool snap that made one wonder if all the global warming doomsayers would change their mind if they had experienced such a chilly August.

"No. Could be nothing but there is something of interest in it. Pack a bag, though, just in case."

John pursed his lips together. "Out of the city?"

"In Cardiff. Might need to stay overnight and I know how you loathe wearing the same thing twice." Sherlock paused, doing his best to look disappointed. "I suppose we won't be able to clean anymore…"

"Shut up."

"But I am truly disappointed…"

"I said shut up," John groused.


End file.
